


Sports Day

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bullying, First Crush, Homophobia, M/M, School, School!lock, Schoollock, Slash, Sports, Teenlock, teen, teen!lock, teenage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-08
Updated: 2014-06-08
Packaged: 2018-02-03 22:22:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1758453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft has a crush on Greg, and Greg has unfortunately baggy PE shorts. Lestrade/Mycroft, oneshot, teenage AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sports Day

Swot. Nerd. Geek. Teacher's pet.

The insults started off simply enough, silly little phrases to spite 11 year old Mycroft. At first, they were easy to take on the chin, for in Mycroft's mind none were insulting terms. Yes, he tried hard in school and enjoyed reading and the occasional comic book. Certainly, he could see the benefits of being the teacher's favourite. None of these were bad things.

Then the words began to take a darker turn, some time around his thirteenth birthday.

* * *

 

It was sports day, one of the few events that every student at Wilkes Preparatory and College participated in, the four hundred or so students aged seven to eighteen. Taller than average but with a rounded body which took away from the impressiveness of that, Mycroft loathed sports day more than any other event. If he were a little less eager to please, he would have skipped it. However, due to his pitifully obedient nature, he attended every year and made a fool of himself in whatever event his sweet-natured form tutor Miss Hadley had coerced him into signing up for, usually the hundred metre sprint.

This year, however, the day seemed to be starting off well.

Due to the small changing rooms and mass of pupils, classrooms were assigned for students to change into their PE kits in. It was a seemingly random draw of who was in each classroom, and Mycroft was rather delighted to see the familiarly spelt name just beneath his in the list of pupils due to change in Room 54, a science lab.

Greg Lestrade.

Smallish and slim, Greg Lestrade was undeniably the most fanciable seventeen year old in the school. To thirteen year old Mycroft, he was Godlike. He had spoken to Mycroft precisely four times, and the younger boy cherished each memory, despite his usual inclination to be cold and detached when it came to other people. The boy's wave of brown hair and warm hazel eyes were beautiful to Mycroft. A spring entered his step as he walked towards the lab.

* * *

 

“Hey, Holmes.” Greg carelessly said when Mycroft slotted himself in beside the older boy to get changed. This was another stroke of good luck to Mycroft: the room was already jam packed with people getting change, and the only reasonable space was beside Greg.

“Hi, Lestrade.” Mycroft replied, unable to stop his cheeks from flaming. Greg had _spoken to him first_. Trembling fingers undid Mycroft, and just as he usually did, he twisted his arms to cover his stomach roll in the brief few moments where his top half was totally uncovered. He kept his eyes downcast, but when he looked up, baggy PE shirt safely covering him, he saw that Greg's eyes were lingering on him.

“What event are you taking part in?” He asked, not so fast to put his polo shirt on as Mycroft. Mycroft couldn't help but notice the small but defined muscles in Greg's arms and his pinkish nipples contrasting against the pale skin.

“Senior one hundred metres.” Mycroft replied, before quickly pushing his trousers off and his shorts on.

“Me too. I hate sports day – it's just boring, watching a couple of hundred little kids running around for hours before running around ourselves. It's the only event I'm in. Maybe I'll see you around.”

In a single movement, Greg pulled his PE shirt on before sweeping out of the room, a bottle of water clutched in his hand.

Mycroft was truly smitten.

* * *

 

“On your marks...get set...go!”

Mycroft ran. He truly tried. He was in a race with nine other boys, aged thirteen to eighteen, and he really did not wish to come last, as he had last year in the junior one hundred metres. That had been embarrassing, for the junior races were for ages seven to twelve, and he had been one of the oldest participating. His soft limbs worked hard as his feet slammed hard into the mud, and he saw that there were only two people ahead of him, one of whom was Greg. In the moment that it took Mycroft to notice this, he tripped. The field had been used the previous week by the school which joined onto Wilkes Prep and College, a girls Prep and College, and they seemed to have tracked all manner of stones all over the field while using it. One of these stones just happened to be sitting right where Mycroft's foot came down, and he fell forwards violently, arms flailing out into the air.

It was just his luck that they did not remain in the air. They found a surface, and grabbed it eagerly. Of course, this would seem good luck in normal circumstances.

The surface just so happened to be the waistband of Greg Lestrade's shorts.

In the instant Mycroft felt whatever he had grabbed come down with him, time seemed to slow down. He opened his eyes (they had closed in preparation for hitting the ground) and saw the blue shorts peeling slowly down Greg's legs, revealing white underwear. Then, as he slammed into the ground, Greg came down beside him, thudding equally as hard, held back by Mycroft's vice grip. 

Deathly silence took over the field, before a single voice called out.

“Faggot!”

* * *

 

“Been munching on Lestrade's arse, Holmes?”

“Fat _and_ a fag? Your parents must hate you.”

“You did that on the field deliberately, Holmes, I saw – you just wanted a look at Lestrade!”

“Filthy bastard, I bet you were hoping he was commando!”

The shouts followed Mycroft throughout the corridors for weeks. No one directed any at Lestrade, or even said them when he was anywhere near, as if they sensed that he might stand up for Mycroft. It was just when he was alone, as he usually was, that the abuse carried on. His cheeks remained almost constantly tinged pink during the weeks, partially through embarrassment and partially through horror that people believed that he was gay. He  _was_ gay, and he knew it, but he didn't particularly want people to know. 

Tap tap! Every student in the small Maths class looked towards the door: the sound of another student come to deliver a message. A welcome distraction from plotting quadratic graphs. Mycroft turned crimson when he glanced up and saw who was there – Greg Lestrade himself.

“Excuse me, Miss, can I borrow Mycroft Holmes for five minutes?”

The young maths teacher glanced between them. She had witnessed what had happened at sports day, and seen how utterly miserable Mycroft had been since. Now she saw the grins and smirks of the students in her classroom, and the wince on Mycroft's face, and made up her mind to speak to the class while Mycroft was gone.

“Certainly, Lestrade.”

As Mycroft clicked the door softly behind him, he heard the teacher began to shout.

* * *

 

“Look, Lestrade, what happened at sports day-”

“It was a total accident, I know. That's why I called you out.” Mycroft had only began to speak when the two were safely away from the classrooms, and Lestrade had pulled him into the sixth form study area, which was thankfully empty. Apparently Lestrade had ducked a lesson to find him.

“I'm sorry if you've been getting bother from anyone.” Mycroft told the older boy, twitching a little from foot to foot.

“That's the other thing I called you out for. I've heard what people are saying about you, and I want you to know that I know it was an accident and I don't give two shits if you're gay or straight or whatever. I'm going to sort out a couple of the lads in your year at lunch today, and I promise you that they'll leave you alone after that.”

Mycroft nodded, and he felt a most un-Mycroft, grateful smile twist onto his lips. “Thanks, Lestrade.”

There was a moment of silence, before Greg suddenly turned to him and said rather quickly,

“I'm gay myself, Mycroft, and you're not bad looking, so give it a couple of years and we'll see what happens.”

With that, the older boy fled, leaving Mycroft to stand confused in the middle of the area.

 


End file.
